


To Boldly Go

by silentsoundy



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: NSFW, Other, Xenophilia, feeler fragging, feeler sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 07:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3520793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsoundy/pseuds/silentsoundy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nag a Decepticon long enough and you might get more that what you wished for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Boldly Go

**Author's Note:**

> ||a one-off, AU, out of plot, gift for a friend. Soundwave/human female||

\--it hadn't really matter how things got escalated, how they had ended up in this predicament of theirs. All that's required to comprehend is that the fleshling caught the dark spy in quite a mood, as it were, and is now reaping the results of her efforts, tenfold--

\--she had been put on a sort of list, this obstinate female, this stubborn and outgoing specimen of the human race, this somewhat aesthetically pleasing and proportionate meatbag who had done all that she could to tempt him into...--

\--into what, exactly?--

\--words and remarks and gestures, the accumulation of cycles upon cycles of relentless efforts had finally worn him down--

\--that and curiosity had gotten the better of him--

\--and who is he to turn away such a willing opportunity?--

\--he had warned her, in his muted manner, with media clips and system alerts, frame-language bristling with hints of roughness, of pending danger should she wish to follow through with her advances--

\--and much to his mild surprise, even after he had curled those lithe digits around her body, she had become more complacent, excited even. Which in turn, had piqued his interest, and had excited him, though he'd be loathe to admit it--

\--he could not communicate with her directly, that meaty brain of hers simply incompatible with his own sort of telepathy. She would have to rely on gestures and his usual methods, second guess intentions and directions he would take this encounter. Which made him all the more intrigued--

\--grasping at her seemingly frail body, his digits crook to quite literally scoop her from her feet, his primary curling to hold her in place under her arms and across her chest, low enough to push up those evidently female features, breasts as a quick search tells him of human anatomy. The third digit folds to support her under her knees, moving to cup her body and have her lean back against that sliver of palm of his servo leaving the middle digit for her to grasp as she pleases--

\--and now as he has her in his oh so careful grip, he lowers himself, crouching low, a knee bent to the cold, hard metallic floor, pedes folded to support his weight on tips, his opposite, unoccupied wing-blade canted to splay digits, balancing his great weight upon delicate digit tips. The dark spy brings her close, leaning to hover torso and helm over his capture and observe--

\--he runs hot, per the norm, any lingering touch to his inner plating and protoform would quickly render flesh discomfort, he exudes and radiates, dissipates that heat from him in invisible waves, and with every exvent he washes over her overly warm exhaust, though clean and dry, smelling of mild cleansing solutions and familiar technology. He stares down at her, visage a mirrored mask, her reflection clear and stark in his visor's glass, his engines rumble low, like the thrumming of a data-centre behind closed doors. Nerves bead the sweat upon her brow. The heat creates that sheen upon her flesh. And he looms, flicking the chin of his helm towards her as if posing a final challenge, an attempt to break her resolve--

\--the curve and hollow of her throat bulging as she swallows piques his further interest, those tiny hands curling over the length of his digit to brace herself makes his dynamic plating shiver minutely. When he intakes a long, low draft to cycle through him, particles of her ascend to filter through his systems. Chemicals, terribly, terribly organic and human chemicals list across his HUD. He chuffs, glossa running to flit across his lip plates behind that mask of his--

{...aroused...}

\--the recording is played quietly, a single word, a stark observation or taunt made to shame, he wouldn't have a direct answer for her. But he knows that sentiment, in his own species' way, and seeing the female before him express a similar reaction?--

\--interesting--

\--his movements are subtle, confident, though her eyes follow him, she is unsure whether or not he is stationary, his helm tilting and canting with such minute and curious motions. A distraction while that slither and hiss whispers from his torso and feelers extend, finally making an appearance. He sees that perspiring sheen slick her skin slipping under the neck of her shirt, eking from the arms of her clothing, across her belly where his hold has lifted the garment. The plausible origin of her scent. Wishing to explore further, a single feeler rears before her and as the mandibles fold back, passively, that darkened centre lights up with five smaller crimson lights within its fathomless interior, though only one of the tendrils slips from its housing--

\--he falls still, optics bright, wide, focused, curious as ever when that tendril extends its rounded tip, touch tentative at first, testing the sensitivity of the female's pliant flesh. It curls a fraction, gently brushing her cheek, slithering under her chin, folds to snake across her throat. It travels to brush against the thin flesh of her lips, and with such minute precision, rims the eyelid under her left eye. Droplets of sweat capture his attention, the hitching of her breath, the tensing of her muscles and the hardening of her grip, and that curious appendage follows the beads down past her neckline. It thickens as the material stretches, and as he holds firm, the thin shirt tears just as that tendril flexes to arch the material from her body--

\--he trills a low, whispered snicker--

\--with the garment falling to her sides, he takes pause, crimson optics scanning as the fallen material reveals another, smaller, tighter garment underneath. Yet another quick search returns various information pertaining to undergarments, female in particular, purpose, style, and whatnot. His Cheshire grin curls at the corners of his mouth. Humans. He never would have thought they'd be so... layered--

\--another tendril joins the first, and as the first makes its way to explore a foot and ankle, the second occupies itself with the newly revealed surprise. The silvery segmented length is warm, pliant, molding to her flesh and form, mindful of sensitivity as he takes cues from her gasping and breathless reactions. It flattens slightly to slip under the edge of that cupping wire, then pushes along to do the same with the second bit of curved material. No, he won't tear this piece from her, he's decided, it would cause more harm than good at this point. He would remove it from her however, or at the very least, given the durability of this brassier push it away to further expose her body and skin--

{...so pretty...so strange...}

\--compliment or not, the recording offers a bit of verbiage to his ministrations as that thinning tendril pushes up the undergarment and he watches the lace and wire fold upwards. Breasts, such intriguing anatomy, completely alien to his kind in form and purpose, there is a definitive softness exposed alongside those rounded curves and gracefully relaxed protrusions. The tendril squeezes and lifts until cries become more than sighs, though pain has yet to be witnessed. The segments flick over those curious nubs, coil and curl and pique until this female fleshling is trembling against his palm and digits, head thrown back, spine artfully arched, and throat blissfully exposed--

\--ah, this... this is something he is all to familiar with, and sensors return data of more chemicals released into the air, of her internal temperature rising, his optics roving about her body, watching on as that pink blush spreads across that pale skin--

\--this, indeed, is a reaction most familiar--

\--and it makes him positively thirsting for more--

\--the secondary appendage continues on, gentle, firm, curiously going about moving and massaging, flicking and teasing, all the while the primary making it way to slither around her right leg. As the dark spy explores, he searches, matching every uncovered surprise with internal research. When that primary feeler's rounded tip nestle against what he'd assumed was her pelvic span undercarriage, by association, the subsequent sharp cry and gasp and shudder of the human startles him--  
\--well then...--

\--and just as her shirt was so ungraciously removed so are her jeans, though these garments proved more stubborn even with such tugging and wriggling and curt trilling from the spymaster's ministrations. The efforts earn him gasping giggles and light laughter from his guest, a few pats of her unsteady hands along his segments, a few coos and a bit of coddling and she's assisted with quick precision--

\--clothing, how time consuming...--

\--though his demeanor changes the moment the lower... better?... half of her is exposed and that first chuff of hot air passes over the entirety of her naked flesh. He's growing quite fond of that adoring little swallow she does, of her blush, and the way those eyes look away as if she's starkly aware of his unblinking gaze. Tendrils taking a moment, stilling their fond caresses, he shifts in posture, gaining a heightened view of his plaything, and nodding fractionally. He is not so ignorant to discern meaning from those lingering hands of hers, of those slender fingers that brush along her inner thigh to come and slip between strangely familiar biology--

\--his attention turns to that slickness that returns when those fingers remove themselves, and he takes yet another long draft of air--

\--...oh--

\--there are deeply rooted, archaic, obsolete protocols and instincts that become tickled by this new data mined, chemicals exuding that force physical associations and pair likeness to biology, though composition differs, the physicality of such things remain the same. What this female exudes triggers in him a boldness that would otherwise disgust and revolt his colder, more rational self--

\--so, so many surprises this cycle~--

\--and he returns to this writhing, gasping, moaning thing in his grasp, one who is clearly pleasuring herself despite her predicament, losing herself to the moment, which in turn beckons him into that downward spiral of carnal greed--

\--his visor shatters to slip back into his helm, as per the nature of the tech, though only partially, leaving his optics covered and his mouth exposed to her. Lip plates curl up over dulled denta, his glossa flicks across the edges, and he dips his helm down just as that third digit shifts and that primary tendril lifts, spreading her legs for him--

\--he is nothing more than a complex system of joined sensors and living metal, driven by a curiosity that itches his cortex and a spark that thirsts for the new and unexplored. And it is the accumulation of all this that has him extend that dull grey, segmented glossa to flatten its tip and gently press those delicate sensors between those thighs. A slew of chemical compounds skitter across his HUD while he works such large tech against such supple and slick flesh, and it takes all his cognitive awareness not to simply engulf the female with his pliant lips and thrust into her as he's wont to do with his Cybertronian partners--

\--no, as ignorant as he is, he is no fool, and knows that these humans are easily damaged and do not yield to the physical as his kind does--

\--she remains pinned by his slender digits, free enough to reach to grasp and grip what she can of his tines and helm and folded visor. He would snicker and grin and shunt more hot air from his frame were he not concentrating on mutually exploring and pleasuring his guest. The tip of his occupied glossa rolls, lapping against undefinable femininity, curling as she rides and grinds, writhes and shudders, and it takes only a few moments before her cries come sweetly to his audials, and that telltale resounding shudder flows from her in sticky slickness--

{...beautiful...stunning...give me more...}

\--and he will pull from her, take and steal more of that sinister pleasure until she exhausts herself with his ministrations--

\--the dark spy withdraws, carefully, glossa slipping from between those shivering legs, away from that twitching pelvis and taut belly and the visor returns. He's patient, he'll wait until that glimmer of hunger returns to her hazed eyes, wait for the moment her hands coax him to return. He'll idly wonder if she is like him, where it doesn't take long to recover, where the initial release is nothing but foreplay to stoke the systems and tease the molten heat--

\--there's that look, mmh, such a beautiful smile, heavy-lidded, knowing, thick with naked lust--

\--a bit of posturing from him, his metal shifts to bare for her his protoform, from what he can hunched over her and kneeling. His biolights, indigo and violet interchanging, pulse bright, a steady stream of heat inviting to touch. But he knows she's smarter than that, she can feel the waves of heat washing over her, a single touch would blister that pale skin of hers--

\--he'd be caught grinning again were it not for that mirrored visor. Oh if she only knew how proud she should be to garner such reactions from him--

\--such a stubborn, obstinate meatbag she is~--

\--and those fingers to wander, to tempt, goad to share and partake and beckon him. And the spymaster will do as she begs, a third tendril making itself known to coil and coddle from over her shoulder, thick, dulled tip, malleable. It slides down her sweat-drenched flesh, between swollen breasts and over her belly and reddened pubis, dipping between folds to slicken itself and thrum minutely against her sex--

\--here he halts, a tilt of his helm, up and slightly to one side, as if raising an optic ridge in question, or perhaps scoffing at the plausible faltering of her resolve--

\--the mewling flurry of begging, needy and divine is all he needs to hear from her--

\--the tendril enters that unknown organic interface array, that tight entrance, slowly, cautiously, pushing, receding, giving, asking, taking. As if to map every micron of her inner flesh, as if comparing her to what he may or may not posses. His gaze is focused, intent on reading her every expression and crease of brow, twitch of lip, gasp and smile and frown and... and... ah, yes, and that furrowing that borders on pain and pleasure and desperation--

\--and she begs him, bright eyes wide and head thrown back, those small hands tugging at hair and clenching around metal--

\--and he moves for her as he knows their kind shares, in manners so terribly similar. His tertiary tendril thrums its contentment, thickens, slims, bulges and narrows with every slow thrust until he's found the perfect shape for his fleshling guest. His affections and ministrations fill her deliciously, slowly, until he increases the tempo and stretches her to the brink of that volatile threshold--  
\--his hold never once falters, his pace never slackens--

\--the accumulation of her efforts has him on servo and knee for her, fragging... fucking... her as she had asked, begged, joked about, coy and blunt--  
\--and she has him completely, in her palm judging by the way his own frame tenses with rising heat and how his own pelvic span has canted and continues to move in such built up and telling overcharge--

\--oh yes, this moment between them will be pondered and mulled over for the next few cycles at the very least--

\--a whine from his chassis and a continuous flow of low trilling has the spymaster caught up in the moment, and just as he shudders his own unrest, she comes undone for him, a veritable mess of loud cries, hitching moans, shivers and shudders of her own, and the sweetest of roiling clenches holding fast to that slowing tendril. In her recovery and post-coital fog, he's moved her to a gathering of things soft, withdrawing every bit of himself with the utmost of care. She will be taken care of once her senses return to her--

\--but for now, the dark spy is in dire need of a few moments to himself--


End file.
